


A Man of His Word

by Hopetohell



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Face-Fucking, Feels, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader-Insert, Rough Sex, Smut, airplay, soft throatfucking, we’ve had soft fisting and soft pegging so why not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-18 01:56:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28610205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell
Summary: Here in this room, August Walker speaks only truth. He says he will dismantle you completely, and so he does.
Relationships: August Walker/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	A Man of His Word

He doesn’t say _take it_ because he doesn’t need to, because you’re already taking it and 

_Oh pet. Would you look at that_ as he’s reaching a hand to feel your throat, stilling his motions to hold and press and even as your eyes are watering with the way your blood screams for air he’s there touching, feeling himself in you. He strokes the column of your throat with a delicacy that hides the rough and murderous nature of the man because here he is with you and you are his; you accept everything and he is so, so proud of you, _that’s my good girl, how well you take me; I’m so deep inside your throat, pet._

And he watches; he sees need and desperation creeping across your face but not fear, never fear 

_When you and I are here in this room, you have my word. I will challenge you and take you farther than you ever thought you could go, but never more than you can handle_

because whatever it is he does out in the world, in here his word is gold

(it is law)

He watches the air turn sour in your blood, and at just the moment when spots start to slide across your vision, he’s pulling himself free; he’s lifting you to kiss his own breath into your lungs. 

_Good, that’s my good girl, you take me so well, what did I ever do without you_

He is lost and bound to you by the desperate shine of spit on your lips, by the gasping breaths you take around his tongue; he fists a hand into your hair and tilts your head to bare your throat. 

_Here,_ he breathes against your skin. _Here I was; I felt myself through skin and cartilage, here I challenged your trust and you rose to me._ And he has to kiss you again, he has to; he cups his scarred hands around your jaw and he is not sweet, not exactly 

(Not ever) 

but he drinks from you until you are dizzy with it; he is all-consuming, overwhelming, and he is still so hard. He is hard, and if his blood could make a noise it would be howling for you. _Good,_ he breathes again, _now on your knees_.

And if the feel of him before was a holy thing, this is a dark sacrament, body and blood given new form in the way he presses at your lower lip with his thumb; he makes you open for him and it's so good, so easy, to fall beneath his hand, to let him feed you his cock.

_That's it, pet. Feel it, taste it, let it linger on your tongue. Good. Now I'm going to fuck your throat again, pet, and I will not be kind._

In here, he is a man of his word. And August aims to bruise; he aims to have you rasping and hoarse by the end, even your voice given to him. He aims to be so far down your throat when he comes that you can't even taste it, not til he withdraws and watches come and spit mingle to stretch in a shining strand between his cock and your mouth. And so that's what he does, because in here he is always

(only ever)

a man of his word; weaker men will lie and promise greatness between the sheets; they'll claim to know how best to dismantle you completely. But here, in this room, when you cede everything you have to him, August says these things and he is truthful. So August plants his heels and passes a hand over your hair to say _here I am_ and here you are; he slides between your lips and in and in and in. He takes your breath for his own; every oxygen-starved cell belongs to him, every tear and drop of spittle and every moan that can't shake free-- all of it belongs to him, freely given; he sees it and he marvels, even now. 

And when August comes it isn't with a roar or yell or even a grunt; it's with the breathy and subvocal _pet_ that maybe you're meant to hear and maybe you're not. But either way it is a gift; it digs into your memory and makes a home there. It belongs to you, more precious than any treasure; you will keep it like a secret. His chest and belly are flushed and heaving; here he draws you to him, to assess, to calculate how he will care for you now. He'll start with tea, warm and soothing, honey and lemon and bergamot blending together to soothe your throat. He will bring you tea, and together you will leave this room, and you will watch him slip back into his other skin, the one who schemes, the one who wants to burn the world. August will slip below again and Walker will rise.


End file.
